Where It's Cold
by BlackAndWhite9999
Summary: When Aveline discovers a plot that will rock the economy of the newly formed United States, she seeks to enlist the help of Connor Kenway. However, when she arrives at the Homestead, she finds a sadder, more sedentary Connor, who's resigned from the Brotherhood. With time running out, Aveline must plant new seeds of revolution in Connor's now barren heart. (Eventual Connorline)
1. Chapter 1: The Lady

**Hey guys, some preliminary stuff. 1) This chaper is really long and it's probably kinda boring? There's not much action in it, just kinda focusing on what Aveline's been up to and watching her generally be a verbal badass. In the next chapter we'll see Aveline be a physical badass. 2) It's kinda heavy on historical context because I think that's really important to making Assassin's Creed work. 3) Connor probably won't show up until Chapter 3. **

**Where It's Cold  
**

**Chapter 1: The Lady**

It had been six years since Monsieur Blanc had buttoned his coat, tipped his hat, and walked out of the warehouse into the rain, never to return. Aveline de Grandpre had made no attempts to stop him. For all of his stutters and his meekishness, she knew for certain that when Gerald Blanc's mind was made up, he would abide absolutely no protestations.

Since then, their Assassin's faction, disguised as an emancipation operation, disguised as a trading company, was faring...passably. It fared well enough to survive without Gerald's sharp financial acumen, but never well enough as it did when Gerald was still around.

Aveline took a breath and slumped in her chair. It was the same old chair Gerald used to occupy when he perched himself at this desk, burying his nose in paperwork that only he could decipher. It was the Year of our Lord 1792, and now _she_ was the master of these silly books. After six years of struggling with the banal formal language of business, and the mad algebra of finances, she realized that none of it had gotten any easier – it had only gotten more familiar. Aveline found that after you partake in a task for a certain amount of time, you're able to do it well enough, whether or not you find it easy, or whether or not you like it.

And she did not like this.

Aveline raised a piece of parchment close to her face, so better to read the exhaustingly fine handwriting striped across the page from end to end. Aveline had learned to read as a little girl, taught first by her father and mother, and then further tutelage was provided by her stepmother. However, at forty-five years of age, it was going to take a pair of spectacles and an entire life's worth of motivation to get through one line of this illegible scrawling.

"Dear Madamoiselle Aveline de Grandpre," she struggled to read the document aloud, "How fortuitous that we should make your acquaintance. We hope our correspondence will continue with your earnest participation over the course of the coming time. We and our benefactors, situated at positions of high esteem amidst our parent company, are prepared to offer sizable dividends for the acquisition of your..."

She had to go over the sentences a few more times before she realized what it was she was actually reading. Her eyes scanned the page for the signature. "John Jackson Rodolpho". Beneath it, in smaller writing, was his company name – Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises.

Whoever this John Jackson Rodolpho was, he and his business were in plans to buy her company.

Well, that simply would not do. Her father may not have been with her anymore, but she knew exactly what he would say. He would insist that her resolve remain strong and unmoving, after chiding her about being "out and about" instead of focusing on more ladylike concerns like marriage, or in this case, business. She'd laugh at these statements, like she did when he was younger, and then kiss him on the cheek to let him know his protestations did not go unheeded (even though they most definitely did).

Aveline smiled. Memories like this were good for her heart. She always thought very warmly of her father when he was alive, and she continued to do so now. Such was a warmth that she could not connect to her mother, who, as a result of her lack of participation in letter correspondence, was more a stranger to her now than ever before.

And she definitely couldn't connect that warmth to Gerald, who'd hurt her more than she ever thought possible on that fateful day six years ago. The depth of Gerald's love for Aveline was always too vast for Aveline to estimate, comparable in volume only to his self-pity. His desire for Aveline's affections amused and charmed her for a number of years, until it became so insatiable and desperate that her amusement turned to fear. The warehouse had become a battleground when he'd come home drunk and cry that she never loved him. He'd flip tables and punch walls. She never imagined such demons dwelled within Gerald's heart.

Then one night, he came home sober and declared he'd made a decision. He was quiet and poised, as he normally was, and said...

"Aveline, I am sorry to you for what I've caused you. But I'm more sorry...to me." And with that, he grabbed his hat and disappeared into the rain.

_Poor Gerald, _Aveline often found herself thinking. _It was never enough for him to be my friend_. _If only he could understand that for a woman with scars of betrayal lining her heart, to call you her friend was the highest honor she was capable of bestowing._

She sighed, and stood. She stretched her back and arms, and then looked again at the parchment. It was rather new stationery, and the business seal adorning the corner of the page looked none at all faded. This proposition had been written up recently, which means this daring business venture by Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises to seize her warehouse was rather sudden. A bit too sudden, for her tastes. She knew very well – if it seems like there's no greater plot behind something – there probably is.

After all, why seek to acquire the only business in New Orleans that just so happens to be run by an Assassin?

Rolling up the parchment and tying it with an elegant green ribbon, she crossed into the changing room and opened her wardrobe. It was brimming with a variety of wonderful costumes, each with their specific function. For obvious reasons, donning a slave's attire for a business venture wouldn't offer her very much credibility, and she could count out attempting to secure her business' future in any respectable manner when dressed to slit a man's throat.

Then it was settled. Her gown would be her armor that day.

She kicked off her boots, loosened and removed her tunic, and untied her pants. She removed her gown from the mannequin that held its shape. Aveline grimaced at the gown's weight. It was so heavy; but she'd be remiss to deny her excitement to wear it. The weapons tradeoff was acceptable, because she knew how to handle herself without a sword – but after spending so much time in functional clothing to kill with blades, she didn't mind dressing fashionably every now and then to kill with looks. To reassure oneself of one's beauty was...nice. And as well, beauty itself offered tactical advantages here and there. She struggled to put on the gown for the next five minutes, after which she affixed her hidden blades and grabbed her poison umbrella. She grabbed the parchment and marched downstairs and out of the warehouse.

The moist heat of the Louisiana July seemed to bombard Aveline from all sides; a ghastly, sour smell travelled with the wind from the bayou. The sun shone bright enough to blind a man. The breeze offered no comfort from the heat; it was warm and muggy, as if the entire population of the town was breathing on her all at once, never ceasing to remind her of its presence. Loud. Nauseating. But so very alive.

Ah, New Orleans. How she loved her town.

Aveline walked down the street, listening intently to the whistles and murmurs of dirty drunkards who'd taken notice of her dress. Normally, they were nothing but that, dirty drunkards, but every now and then, their state of inebriation betrayed knowledge she'd need. Perhaps they'd feel they had something to offer, and they wouldn't realize they'd offered too much until the lady with the bustle had a knife at their balls, asking them to elaborate.

"Bonjour, _mademoiselle_," one screeched from down the street, mug in hand. "Where are you going?"

She walked on, ignoring.

"Ah, fine, then" he said to himself. "And Rodolpho says the women in New Orleans are polite."

There it was. That name. _Rodolpho. _

Aveline turned around, put on a faux smile, and returned to the man. He was a short man, his beard grown unevenly about the lower half of his face, and his breath smelled so nauseatingly of rum that Aveline had to give herself about four feet of berth.

"_Excusez-moi_," she said, accentuating her words with an innocent giggle, "Did you say, Rodolpho? Surely you do not mean John Jackson Rodolpho?"

"_Oui, mon cherie,_ I know the man," the man said. He was not French, although the throaty rasp of his _r's _suggested he likely knew the language on a sub-intermediate level. His accent held characteristics of London English and another nation, one she couldn't recognize. "I know John Jackson Rodolpho, though I wish I didn't! Why do you want to know John Jackson Rodolpho?"

"Why do you wish you didn't know him?" _Control the conversation, _she reminded herself.

"Because he's got a pretty lady like you looking for him, when you should be looking for me!" The drunkard spread his arms open wide, as if inviting her into his embrace. "Come on, I've got so much love to give!"

She stretched her smile wider, and, swinging her hips in a sultry fashion, Aveline closed the distance. She held her breath in the presence of that awful breath of his. She brought her voice down a whisper. The secret to manipulating a stupid man—a drunken stupid man, especially—was to make him think that a woman's words were meant only for him. Even if there's nothing particularly romantic about them.

"Do you think," she whispered, delicately, seductively, "you could show me where he lives?"

The drunkard's voice sank low, turning into a phlegmy purr. "That depends, _ma douce cherie," _he said, placing his free hand on her hip. "What will you show me in return?"

"Careful with those hands," she cooed, guiding his hand off her side and back onto his own person. "Time and a place, _monsieur_."

"Very good!" He roared as he cackled. Aveline looked around, wary of the attention he was assuredly drawing to her. A lady of her class, consorting with a man in his state? What would people think? Worse yet, a woman of her color, consorting with a man in his state...she _knew _what people would think. She took a few steps back. When he tried to move in close to her again, she planted the tip of her umbrella at his feet, creating a barrier that he was too drunk to understand. Instead, he simply lurched and continued talking.

"He and his business partner work at the office two streets over. The big ugly black one." He pointed to his right. She looked to where he indicated. Through the space between two buildings, she could make out a black building. That must be it.

"_Merci,", _she curtseyed, and turned toward the building, walking away from this conversation before she got in any deeper with this disgusting creature.

"Hey! That's it?" he called after her. But Aveline kept walking, having attained the information she needed. He waved her off and slumped back to his perch outside the tavern.

She approached the building. It was small, unassuming. She placed a hand on the black walls. The paint was spotless; not a chip or fade anywhere, which means the coat was rather fresh. Perhaps less than a week old. The wood was solid and smooth, although she was never knowledgable enough to tell what kind of wood. And the sign that rested above the door, greeting all who enter, read "Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises" in gold lettering – gold that surely would have faded to silver after a considerable amount of time in the Louisiana sunlight.

This building was quite new, indeed – about as new as the parchment she held in her hand that proposed to take her family's legacy away from her. This tiny business wanted everything her family had built, and it wasn't even old enough for the paint to chip. What a disgrace.

Just then, she heard the bell ring as the door opened – a short man in a grey wig and blue coat looked her up and down with trepidation. "Woman, if you seek to return those garments to your master's wife, you shan't find her here. Nor will you find the lashings you're sure to receive upon your return."

Aveline chuckled. She was not unused to being mistaken for a slave – she's used it to her advantage countless times – but this was the first time anyone had mistaken her for a slave when she was wearing a dress that broadcasted her social class. _Some men's prejudices run too deep to be corrected by something as plain as evidence,_ she mused.

"I don't think I should expect lashings." she said, walking closer to the man. He turned his nose up as she drew nearer. Far be it from him to allow something like height difference to keep him from looking down on her. "After all, she stitched it for me with her own two hands. The wife of Monsieur de Grandpre was known to extend such generosity to her own family."

The man puzzled over this, before his eyes turned wide with realization. His mouth gaped for a second, before finding the words. "Oh, my sincerest apologies!" he cried. He grasped both her hands in his and shook, being careful not to squeeze. His hands were sweaty and clammy. Aveline hid her revulsion behind a superior smile. "I'd heard of Monsieur Grandpre and his wife, but I never imagined that his daughter would be-"

"So very intelligent?" she finished his sentence for him. God, did she love toying with fools. "Well, that's a mistake onto which we should place a very hard limit." She gestured to the door. "May I?"

The man stepped aside, gesturing her into his place of business. "Oh yes, please, do come in, my dear." She gave a polite nod and stepped past him, raising up her skirt to step over the threshold.

The inside of the place was lavish, much more so than she would have expected. She'd always thought her offices at the Grandpre warehouse were luxurious, but this place put her abode to shame. The walls and floors were built of a glossy wood, with a sheen that glinted in the light of the torches. On the ground were tasteful red rugs, surrounded on all sides by inviting furniture of a similar color. On the walls hung hunting trophies; stuffed heads of unfortunate animals roaring at any who'd challenge the hunting prowess of their killer.

Aveline felt out of place, wearing a dress so completely green in a room so red and brown; but she decided it didn't matter, because she wouldn't stay long.

"Please, sit," the short man asked of her, but she was already moving to one of the chairs by the time he said anything. When she turned around and sat, she became very aware by the crestfallen look on his face that she was sitting in his chair. _Well, it looks like it's the customers' couch for you, monsieur._

At that second, another man, dressed in stylish black, significantly younger, taller, and with black hair and a fresh shave, approached from the back room. His eyes scanned the room, thin and scowling, as if he distrusted the validity of everyone and everything he saw at first glance. His mouth was small and tight, suggesting displeasure with what his eyes surveyed. But when his eyes fell upon Aveline, they widened, and his mouth turned to a smile, revealing that there was a modicum of handsomeness to the man. He outstretched his arms invitingly and walked toward her.

"Ah, here we are!" he sighed. "I was hoping we would receive a call from you."

"Oh?" she asked. She did not stand, even though his body language beckoned her to do so. "You didn't make note of that in your message." She indicated that she was carrying his letter.

"Well, when one makes an unexpected request like that one," he said, "and one as ridiculous as that one, we'd expect for you to want to make a personal visit." As she listened to him speak, she noticed he placed stress on every second or third syllable, even though his inflections suggested he hailed from London. It was the same strange mix of accents she'd noticed in the drunk man from earlier. She also noticed that there was a charm to his demeanor, a charm that she didn't see when he'd entered the room a minute earlier. Was he putting it on as a business tactic?

"But then," she returned to the subject at hand, "if you recognize the ridiculousness of these requests, why do you continue to place them?"

"Because, despite all the complications, I am of still of the mind that it would be the best direction in which both our companies could possibly embark."

"And what is your company exactly?" she asked.

"Er, Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises," the short man chimed in from his seat on the end of the couch. "It's a trading company, like yours, madame."

"Madamoiselle, not madame," she corrected him.

"Oh, you're unwed," he said, an indecent purr lining his tone. "My deepest apologies."

"There's no sense in apologizing for circumstances you're not in any position to change," she spat back, "is there?" she watched his spirits plummet as she finished her sentence.

The man in black turned to his associate. "Mr. Cavendish, would you be so kind as to fetch us some coffee?" The short man, now identified as Mr. Cavendish, flubbered a bit in his embarrassment before rising, giving a curt bow, and retreating to the back room.

The man in black sat down on the couch, on the side nearest Aveline, but not so close as to make her uncomfortable. "Apologies for my friend...he is new here." He cleared his throat and adjusted his collar. "Modestly efficient with paperwork, but he brews excellent coffee, which, between you and me, is why I keep him around."

He outstretched his hand, adorned with numerous rings. She noticed a tan line on his middle finger from where another ring surely sat.

"Rodolpho," he named himself. "John Jackson Rodolpho".

Aveline smiled and bowed her head politely as she daintily took his hand. His charm was definitely rehearsed. She could see it in the rhythm of his speech. It was the same rhythm that Gerald used to use when setting up affairs with new clients.

"Have you had coffee from the Blue Mountains of Jamaica?" Rodolpho asked. "It's said to be some of the best coffee in the known world. It's the principal import for our company at the moment."

"Jamaica is a British colony," she pointed out. "Importing goods from the British must not sit well with the Americans."

"Ah, but New Orleans is not American." he replied. "Not yet, at least."

She furrowed her brow. _What does he mean, not yet?_ Before she could open her mouth in inquiry, he followed up.

"There are rumblings all around town that within the next few years the new United States of America will acquire a large swath of land from the French, including our precious _Nouvelle Orleans_."

"Those are surely still rumors."

"True, but given the trajectory history has taken in the past few decades, we would be remiss not to take due precaution. And thus, we arrive at the letter. I will not disrespect you by skirting the issue. I wish to buy your company. I am of the opinion that when New Orleans joins the United States, it would be healthiest for us to combine our efforts such that we can already have a strong, unified hold on the city's exports before the Americans come in to take control."

"My company is not failed nor failing, and it's in very good control of itself." Aveline protested, keeping her tone under control so as not to incite undue aggression. "It's in no position to be bought, and, judging by the newness of this place, you're in no position to buy."

"And yet, your company underperforms compared to other business ventures, including my own. You see, I mean no disrespect nor offense. I mean only to propose that there might be a better future for the Grandpre company-"

"If it were in different hands, yes?" she finished. He bowed his head in affirmation. "Well, you've meant no offense, and yet I'm sorry to report that I've taken it."

At that moment, the back door opened. Three mugs of steaming coffee on a tray were being carried to Aveline and Rodolpho by Mr. Cavendish. The door creaked to a close very slowly. As it closed, she saw through it a desk with a number of papers strewn about it. She didn't pay it much mind.

But she did a double-take when she thought she saw a red cross-

Mr. Cavendish lay the tray on the coffee table, rather loudly, which broke Aveline's attention. She looked back to the doorway—it was closed. Her brow furrowed. Rodolpho eagerly grasped his mug and took a sip. He let out an overstated "aahhh" to indicate his refreshment. Trepidatiously, Aveline took a sip of hers. The coffee was bitter, as all coffee is, but with a soothing, earthy texture, which she had never tasted in coffee from the mainland. Although she wouldn't say it, it was surely the most delicious coffee she'd ever had. And that made her very, very suspicious.

"And this coffee is from Jamaica, you said? The Blue Mountains?" Aveline inquired.

"Yes, indeed, it is." Rodolpho responded, puzzled that she'd fixated on the coffee once more.

"Interesting." She set down her mug and leaned forward, studying the faces of both Rodolpho and Mr. Cavendish. "Because I find it puzzling that you'd be able to legally bring imports from a British colony into a French territory without running into certain...obstacles."

Rodolpho seemed to trip over his own words. "Mad-Madamoiselle Grandpre, we-"

"In order to secure trade relations such as these, you'd need connections. Serious connections," she said. She lingered at the end of that sentence for a bit, letting that statement stew in their brains for a minute, before she got up and changed her tone into one much more genial.

"Well, I must thank you for the lovely coffee and for allowing me a few minutes of your time," she said. "I'm afraid I must now take my own time to think about your proposal." She made for the door.

"But we haven't even discussed terms!" Rodolpho called after her.

"Write me your terms in a letter. You're very keen to do that. _Au revoir, monsieurs." _She walked out the door, leaving Rodolpho and Mr. Cavendish standing there, looking very perplexed.

She made her way back to her headquarters, going over the facts in her mind. Their office had only opened recently, and yet they'd already established successful trade routes to Jamaica. They anticipated some theoretical purchase of Louisiana – and were very determined to make sure that they controlled trading in New Orleans before that purchase should happen. Ergo, they wanted her business. In short, they had connections, and they had control – and they wanted more.

But none of these facts were more damning than what she was almost certain she saw on the desk in the back room for a split seconds.

The cross of the Templars.

She'd pay them another visit tonight – but this time, she'd be dressed for the occasion.


	2. Chapter 2: Severed Ties

**Chapter 2: Severed Ties**

Climbing was never very difficult.

After thirty-three years of being an Assassin, walls and cliffs were no harder to traverse than paved roads. One would have needed such aptitude from a young age in order to scale Agate's ostentatious tree sanctuary, after all. Agate's training regimens were torturous at worst and brutal at best; by the time Aveline was thirteen her body was more muscle than anything else. She was so full of strength and stamina that the act of scaling walls was no longer an exercise of the body but an exercise of her will. If she believed she could reach the top, she would make it happen.

And so she did. She pulled herself over the banister into the bell terrace of the St. Louis Church steeple. She then stood atop the banister, balancing on the barrier meant to protect one from falling. She wouldn't. Not before she'd scanned the path between herself and Rodolpho & Abstergo, which was two blocks up St. Ann Street, the roadway down which she was staring. Her target lay directly ahead.

_ I could run a straight path from here to my target_, she considered, _if I plan on getting shot. _And she was correct—from her position, she scouted four separate guard stations in the full moonlight. A single guard was stationed directly in front of the church doors, but she could hear his snoring even from her altitude. Advancing without rousing him would be no great challenge. The same could not be said for the other three, all of whom were in states of wakefulness despite the hour. The thin Chartres St. separated the church from the start of St. Ann St. About six meters to the right of the intersection were stationed two guards, who were paying more attention to their conversation and their drinks than any potential danger. She would not take this for granted. _While soldiers may have short spans of attention, they are generous with how readily they distribute it, _she mused. She'd have to be cautious moving beyond them—but the sentry placed on a roof on the righthand side of the street, patrolling up and down a long veranda, would pose problematic. She couldn't stay at the intersection too long or else risk being discovered by the drunken pair—but if she hastened her advance while within the sentry's eyeline, her eagerness would compromise her.

_Then the rooftops are the safest path, if I can divert the sentry's attentions, _she resolved. The most challening part of her advance, however, would surely be the home stretch, where the fourth obstacle, a platoon of about eight soldiers, were patrolling their nightly beat around the block upon which Rodolpho & Abstergo just so happened to be situated. Given these conditions, by that point she'd need to be on rooftops no matter what – approaching her target on foot meant absolute failure. So it was settled – she'd get to rooftops as quickly as possible, avoid ground movement by any means necessary, and by following this plan, she'd only have one guard to worry about.

Aveline smiled. This approach resembled her usual plans – a rough outline of her intentions, followed by some risky improvisation on the spot. After over thirty years of being an Assassin, her instincts had never failed her. There was no reason they should start now.

Aveline turned her gaze downward, estimating the distance between herself and the cart filled with hay below. This move always seemed reckless to Aveline, ever since the first time Agate taught it to her. There was no guarantee that the pile of leaves below his tree would be thick enough to cushion her fall, nor that she wouldn't miss her mark. Agate laughed when she first expressed her skepticism. He told her, "That is the point. You can't know for certain that it, or anything else, will be there for you – all you can do is have faith." Then he pushed her off the tree. The next thing she knew, she was nestled safely in the leaf pile, and Agate's whooping laughter echoed from the top of the tree. Ironic, she often thought, that in the end a simple haystack would prove more of a fixed point than did the complex Agate.

Aveline closed her eyes. She emptied her mind of all ruminations on the past and focused only on the now. There was only her, the hay bale, and the bond of trust between the two. She inhaled, bent her knees, spread her arms wide, and kicked off the banister with both feet. The wind accelerated from stagnant to blustering in an instant. She performed an airborne somersault, adjusting her descent such that her back faced the coming target. Agate told her that it was the safest and most aerodynamic way to fall into the hay bale, despite being unable to view her target. But she had faith she'd stick the landing. She'd need to.

The wind rushed up from below her...her heart beat a thousand times a minute...and then...

The rush of wind ceased. Her body was no longer moving, and her vision was completely blocked by hay. She could feel the dried grass covering her entire body, surely concealing her from the nearby guards. Everything was quiet within her hiding place. Quiet enough for her to regroup, regather her thoughts. _Now's the time to navigate the street away from the-_

Wait. Why was it so quiet? What did she hear before that she wasn't hearing now? It wasn't the slurred words of the drunken guards across the street. It wasn't the clopping of workhorses or the creaking of the buggies they pulled.

It was the snoring. The guard in front of the church was awake.

Aveline didn't panic. It was only one guard she'd have to worry about. She removed a few strands of hay so as to see out from under the bale. The guard, although drowsy, was alert, and approaching the hay bale. He must have been woken up by Aveline's descent. She overestimated just how heavy of a sleeper he was. No great misfortune. As soon as he approached, she would-

He pointed the bayonet of his musket at the bale, ready to violently fish for any unwanted guests. When he thrusted the bayonet, Aveline shoved her right hand out of the hay bale and grabbed the barrel of the musket, forcefully turning it to her right. The guard staggered and stumbled off-balance to his knees. Aveline then thrusted her left hand outward and snaked her fingers around the back of his head. She pulled his head forward, crashing his forehead against the wooden side of the cart. He fell to the ground silently, rendered completely unconscious. _Efficient work, Aveline._ Despite her pride in herself, she stayed focused. She paused for a minute, waiting to listen to the two guards across the street.

"I told her she could come to my place if she wishes to have a taste," one of them slurred to the other, who laughed and hooted.

Their continued conversation meant they hadn't noticed anything. Good. Aveline climbed out of the hay bale on the side of the guard she just felled, out of view of the other two. She peered around the corner, sighting a passing carriage. She dashed around the cart and forward, minding the weight of her footfall so as not to make any noise, and hopped onto the back of the carriage, bending low to keep her head out of sight. She rode until the count of ten, at which point she leapt for the nearby wall and scrambled vertically up the side. When she reached the top of the building, she looked down and relished in the knowledge that the two guards hadn't noticed a thing. _Two stations down, _she reviewed, _two to go. _

She aligned herself with a chimney and looked around it to scout the rooftop sentry. He very earnestly patrolled his veranda in a back-and-forth pattern, musket at the ready. _He must be new on the force, _she thought. _Senior officers are hardly so eager to be useful. _She waited for him to turn his back before she started running straight ahead. She'd need to hide behind another chimney by the time he turned around. She ran, minding her footfall again, hoping not to rouse residents, all the while keeping an eye on the sentry...

He turned around. Aveline took cover behind another, taller chimney on a rooftop at the end of the block. Looking around it, she was plesaed to see that the guard had not spied her. Taking this as a sign, she leapt to the building on the next block and started scaling the wall to its roof, climbing quickly as possible. From behind her, she heard "What's that?"

_He saw me. I am left with no choice, then. _With expert speed, she whipped out her blowpipe and fired a dart at the man, getting him right in his throat. From her vantage point, she could see him staggering. She knew what followed – she didn't need to watch. She finished her ascent to the top of the building, shaking off any thoughts as to whether or not he had a family that would miss him. "An Assassin doesn't dwell on such things," Agate would say. But if she could, Aveline would apologize to every single family who she'd broken with her blade.

Aveline darted across the roofs until she reached the other end of the block. She looked over the ledge – the black Rodolpho & Abstergo building was in her sights, and the faint candlelight from within implied that someone was home. She'd need to get inside, and fast. But the platoon of soldiers below threatened to jeopardize that endeavor. To her left—_yes!_—she spied a merchandise lift. She could use to get across to Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises with ease. She took a second to wait until the platoon turned the corner, and then drew her whip. She swung it, coiling it neatly around the arm of the lift, and pushed off from the roof. She swung gracefully and silently from one roof to the next, but landed with a harsh thud on the roof of Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises. _Whoever's inside will come to check soon, _she thought. _I'll have to move fast. _

Aveline crept over to the edge of the roof, just above the open window, and climbed down the wall. She knew her next move was going to be risky and, if she was unlucky, would result in a brawl, thus defeating the purpose of reconnaisance, but she needed to improvise. She dropped down to the windowsill and rolled inside, landing in the center of the room, machete drawn.

The room was empty—that was a relief. Shelves of leatherbound books stretched from floor to ceiling across the wall directly ahead of her. To Aveline's left was a writing desk. It wasn't the one she'd glimpsed earlier in the day—she was, after all, on the second floor now. Materials on the desk were very scant; and yet, it yielded valuable information about the current situation. There was not much molten wax pooling at the base of the candle, meaning it was newly lit. The quill still sat in the inkwell, and the only piece of paper on the entire desk was a letter, as of yet unfinished and unsigned. Someone was in the process of writing a letter, likely one of a sensitive nature, since the desk downstairs clearly handled the majority of the company's affairs, and would likely be back soon.

Aveline took a step toward the desk, about to read the letter for herself, when she heard a creaking of stairs outside the room. She frantically looked about for a spot where she could hide. The room was so barely furnished, with no couch nor closet to use as serviceable cover. Looking behind her, she noticed that there was a crevice about two feet wide between the bookshelf and the corner of the wall. Without thinking about it, she slid into that crevice and stood as flush against the wall as she could. _I hope I'm far enough from the candlelight..._she pulled down her hood and looked down, hoping to obscure her face.

The door burst open, and she heard two sets of footsteps enter.

"Nonetheless, sir, perhaps it's better to abstain from writing him at this juncture? He is-" the snivelling voice of Mr. Cavendish was immediately recognizable. He was cut off by a voice that took a second for Aveline to place, however.

"Excruciatingly busy, I am aware. However, he has responsibilities here as well, and I will not let him treat them as yet another of his many oversights!" The sharp disdain was surprising to observe, but the strange accent was unmistakable. This was John Jackson Rodolpho speaking, clearly having dropped his faux geniality in the absence of company. In reality, he was authoritative and stern.

"I understand, sir," Mr. Cavendish sounded crestfallen. "Will you be requiring anything else?"

"Listen, Benjamin," Rodolpho continued, "until treasurer Hamilton is deposed, Alistair's business in the North should go uninterrupted. Nonetheless, he should remain appraised on the progress we make here in the south. I will not abide any further protestation on the matter. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir." the door closed, and both voices ceased. Mr. Benjamin Cavendish must have exited. She heard the scrape of the chair being pulled out, and the heaved sigh of a man taking a load off. She gave it a few seconds, until she heard the scrawl of a quill against parchment. _I'll sneak up on him, hold a blade to his throat, and get all the information I need, _she decided. She raised her foot forward, and set it down ever-so-gently...not anticipating the violent _creak _of the floorboards beneath her.

With reflexes like lightning, Rodolpho's writing hand sent the quill zooming toward Aveline's face. At the last second she ducked, causing it to graze her hood and become wedged in the spine of a book on the shelf behind her. She ripped it out of the book's spine and observed that the quill had a metal writing tip, sharp enough to puncture a man with the right velocity. She looked back to Rodolpho, who was now standing at attention, rolling up his cuffs, eyes fixed on Aveline.

"I must concede, it was rather hasty of me to hurl my only weapon at my well-armed foe," Rodolpho considered, a gravell in his voice she hadn't heard during their first encounter, "and yet, I suspect I should fare just fine. I appreciate that you chose to dress for the occasion this time. Your daywear from earlier, while elegant, would be wholly inappropriate for this encounter. I do find this attire much more enticing."

_So he knows who I am. _That changed things immensely. Was that the real reason he wanted to buy my company? Because he knew that I was an Assassin?

"Why do you really want my company?" Aveline demanded.

"Oh, everything I shared with you earlier is still the truth," he said. "It simply comes as an added bonus that we should also be deposing the only remaining Assassin in the Louisiana area."

"There are more of us," Aveline lied. She knew that apart from herself, there wasn't anyone who could take on Templars effectively.

"Hardly. With Agate gone, most of the Assassins active down here are information agents, much like your friend Gerald was. He was hardly a capable fighter. I can't imagine the rest would fare much better."

Aveline felt her blood go cold. _Gerald? Why did he say "was"? What happened to Gerald? What did he do to him?_ Despite every ounce of better judgment in her body, she lunged at Rodolpho, pinning him against the wall, holding the machete at his throat. She wanted, so badly, to let loose all restraint and let the machete sink into this sick man's neck. But she needed answers.

"What did you do to Gerald? Tell me!" she yelled. She cared little about volume anymore.

"Oh? Is that why you're here? I thought you came in a heroic attempt to thwart our Templar plans!" Rodolpho joked, seemingly unafraid of the blade that was dangerously close to cleaving his skin. "If so, you'd be obliged to abandon your hesitance and just kill me."

"Tell me what you've done, and tell me what you plan to do. Then, I will fulfill that obligation."

Rodolpho cleared his throat. "After Gerald left, he went north. Along the way, he saw three men in a broken-down buggy and, being the kind soul he was, stopped to help. The minute he caught a flash of this ring," Rodolpho gestured to the ring he now wore on his middle finger, emblazoned with the Templar Cross, "he found himself in a conundrum. His moral compass wouldn't allow him to assist Templars, so he could either run for his life and be shot—an honorless death—or he could stand his ground and die like a man." and with a smile, Rodolpho purred, "He did show courage. To the very end."

Aveline jammed her machete into the wall right beside Rodolpho's head. "Liar!"

"It was all for the best," Rodolpho continued. "We had on us a plethora of sensitive documents that would implicate us in a very serious plot."

"What plot?" she cried.

"Simple. The American politicians in Philadelphia are to convene a meeting headed by the United States treasurer, Alexander Hamilton, to declare dollars as the standard American currency."

"What does this have to do with the American acquisition of French land?"

"By God, you do ask the wrong questions," Rodolpho laughed. "You're making this significantly easier than I'd expected."

"What are you talking about?" she roared.

Catching her off-guard, Rodolpho kicked her in the stomach, knocking her on the floor, taking the machete out of her hand. Realizing she was at a disadvantage, Aveline stayed down, holding tight eye contact with Rodolpho.

"Aren't you curious why I know that you're the only combat-ready Asssassin in Louisiana?" he asked. "Don't you wonder why I didn't try to kill you when you arrived at our offices earlier, when you had significantly less weaponry on you and would have made a much easier target? And do you not stop to consider why I'm announcing the schemes of the Templar to you, a member of the opposition?"

_Damn it. _She'd been outwitted. She didn't understand how, or in what way, but she had. She needed to take a second to think. How could they know about the training patterns of the Assassins? _Of course. They're Templars. They have people in high places and low places. _The drunkard from earlier who pointed her to his offices—he had the same strange accent as Rodolpho. She'd been foolish to brush this off as coincidence—he must have been a low-level Templar agent, planted in the streets to gather information and enforce their plans without arousing suspicion. Who knows where else they could be? What else could they have been doing all this time? How tight of a stranglehold could they have on New Orleans without Aveline's knowledge?

"Why are you telling me your plan?" she asked.

"Well, it's an effective distraction from the raging inferno that's consuming your base of operations."

Aveline started to shiver. Her eyes grew wide. "You...what?"

"Your warehouse is on fire, my dear." He cackled. "Sure, we would have loved to buy your company, but given your clearly-stated opinion on the matter, we thought it best to wait until nightfall and simply cut our losses. We can't persuade you to join us...so we'll beat you."

Just then, the door burst open, and Mr. Cavendish stood in the doorway, musket pointed at Aveline. "Back away, now!" He commanded.

Aveline couldn't move. She was rooted to the spot, her machete in Rodolpho's hand, her heart in her stomach, beating a trillion times faster than normal. She needed to know if Rodolpho was lying. But if she moved, Cavendish would shoot her. She just needed to get to the window and see if her warehouse was burning. If it was...she'd lost everything.

Slowly, carefully, measuring her speed, she stood up. She raised her hands in the air, signifying her surrender...or so it seemed. With an almost imperceptible flick of her wrist, she tossed Rodolpho's metal-tipped quill between Mr. Cavendish's eyes. He inhaled sharply, staggering back, and fired his musket into the ceiling. He crashed into the bookshelf, which collapsed on top of him, burying him under a pile of books and wood. He was surely dead. Without a second to spare, she buried her hidden blade into Rodolpho's neck.

His knees wobbled, and before he could fall to the ground, Aveline caught him. He coughed, and blood from his mouth spattered onto her face. Then he laughed, the low, gurgling laugh of a man who's throat is pooling with blood. "Game over, _mon cherie," _he chortled.

"Game over? You've failed! I'm still alive!" she yelled.

"Not for long," he said. "If it wasn't either of us, it would be someone else. I've played my part. And the father of understanding guides me."

Disgusted, Aveline threw him against the wall as hard as she possibly could. She heard a crack of bone on impact, and felt overwhelming satisfaction to see he'd gone limp the minute he fell to the floor. _No time to waste. _Aveline grabbed the letter off the table, expecting to read it later, and folded it in her pocket. She leapt for the windowsill and climbed back up to the roof. She turned around, looking for a fire. And she found it.

Even from her distance, she could see it. The smoke billowed from the warehouse like an obsidian column leading into the heavens. The light of the flame illuminated the buildings adjacent. The old wood of the warehouse must have allowed the fire to spread within minutes. _No, no, no, no, no._

Aveline couldn't feel her feet as she ran. She was no longer conscious in the present moment. Her eyes remained fixed on the inferno, which grew ever closer as her world zoomed past and her legs carried her to her destination. She paid no mind to guard sentries or patrols. There was only her, running, and up ahead, the decline of all that she had left in this city. She had lost so much. Gerald. Agate. Her father. Even her deceitful stepmother held a miniscule place in her heart. This warehouse, and the lifestyle it represented for her, was the only thing keeping her tethered to New Orleans.

And now, having reached her destination, standing right outside the burning warehouse, looking at the destruction of everything she held dear, she realized that her ties to New Orleans were gone. The town she'd defended with all her might, the town where she grew up, the bayou where she was raised, was no longer different than any other strange frontier. She no longer had any tools with which to conquer or control her environment. She no longer had any weapons with which to take on the Templars on any real, structural level. She was alone. An Assassin alone cannot win. Aveline de Grandpre alone cannot save New Orleans.

She turned around. Blinded more by the tears than the cinder, smoke, and ash, she started walking north. And then she started sprinting. She barreled past the crowds of people who'd gathered to watch this strange old building collapse. She just ran. She'd run and run until she could find faster transport. All she knew was that she needed to go.

But she wouldn't be going just anywhere. No, she knew exactly who she needed to find. For up North, the Assassins were not just information agents spread thin across the bayou area. They were a Brotherhood, strong with men and women who knew how to fight, how to infiltrate, how to lead. Up North, in Philadelphia, the Templars were planning something severe, something catastrophic. The new American government, founded with the help of the Brotherhood, was in danger. To quell this coming threat, she'd need help from someone who she'd known to be the greatest Assassin in all of the New World.

To find Connor Kenway, she'd need to go where it's cold.


	3. Chapter 3: Cold Heart

**Chapter 3: Cold Heart**

Aveline pulled the fuzzy bear pelt as tightly against her body as she could, but it was no use. The cold on all sides permeated every fiber of her clothing, and seeped beneath her skin through every pore. It was as if her heart was pumping ice water through her veins instead of warm blood. _New Orleans...was never...this cold. _Even her thoughts couldn't finish sentences for the shivers.

She was climbing a hill up a road she did not know. She'd traveled to New York before when she first met Connor, but anywhere beyond that point had been unfamiliar ground. She'd wanted to avoid all towns in case there were Templars on the lookout for her, but if she hadn't retired _somewhere_, she would have frozen to death. _If a Templar is opportunistic enough to attack me, _she resolved, _I can handle it. _She derived confidence from these thoughts, which slipped away as soon as she'd tripped and fallen into a snowdrift for the thousandth time. Getting up and brushing the snow off her tunic and trousers, trying very hard to not waste energy shivering, she pressed on.

The town where she'd laid down her burdens tonight was a small hamlet called Rockport. She was elated to discover that she had made it to Massachusetts on her own. The first place in town she sought out was the inn, which, for its modesty, had rather fetching accommodations. Comfortable sheets, a spacious room, and a fair price. As an Assassin, she would have been prepared for any sort of conditions, but such comfort after a month's journey was appreciated.

Rockport was a fishing town, primarily, although this time of year, you'd be hard-pressed to find a fish swimming in the waters off Cape Ann, let alone a fish that's willing to bite. Familiar with the seasonal practices of the crawdad fishers in the bayou, Aveline suspected that she likely wouldn't find any fisherman around the docks. The area would be secluded. She could ask around for directions without gathering too much attention. She knew she was near the Davenport Homestead—a day's journey more at most—she just didn't know which way it was.

Lying on her bed, she looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember as much as she could about Connor Kenway. It had been a significant number of years since she'd last made his acquaintance in person. She'd shared correspondence with him in the summer of 1784 via letters, but she hadn't seen him since seven years before then. _Fifteen years total...how the years fly. _Despite her middle age, Aveline didn't look a day over thirty, due to her keeping in excellent shape and being of a complexion that was known to bequeath youth unto its wearers. She didn't always feel like it, though. Her body may have been young, but her mind felt old and full of thoughts that pooled together in a swamp so dark that one couldn't possibly tell one unhappy memory from another. Nonetheless, Aveline tried to wade through it, and scrounge up an image of Connor Kenway. She found one, lurking toward the bottom. She remembered her first glimpse of him, low to the ground on bended knee, sifting through snow as if he'd known its icy touch all his life. With the senses of a trained hunter, he had whirled around to face her at the sound of her footfall. Under his hood, protruding forth like the proud beak of an eagle, Aveline could only discern a strong jawline and stern profile. But when he stood to look at her...she'd be foolish to deny she didn't feel...something.

She wondered if she might feel that "something" when she would see him again tomorrow. The thought of it made her feel just a few years younger. She blew out her candle and closed her eyes, ready for the morning to come.

She awoke before sunrise, expecting to find fishermen at the docks who would try to catch the fish off-guard. She sniffed her tunic before she drew it over her body; her nose crinkled as she resolved that it could use a good wash. She hadn't had time to visit stores in towns to purchase new clothes. She'd used washrooms when she could down south and continued on wearing wet clothing, leaving the task of drying to the sun. Once she entered the snowy frontier, however, that no longer became an option for obvious reasons. Sighing and hoping to find washing accommodations sooner rather than later, she drew her hood and left the inn.

The chill of the early morning breeze sept through the stitching of her clothing and down to her skin, but Aveline pressed forth to the docks all the same. The planks were old and encrusted with ice. At the end of the narrow pier sat a man with a line cast into the freezing water. Aveline approached him cautiously, studying him as she grew closer. He showed no evidence of being affected by the cold, which she would have attributed to drink, but his stillness suggested otherwise. _A gifted fisherman, _she concluded, _having mastered the craft of suffering for his passion. _

She cleared her throat. He did not move. "_Pardon, monsieur," _she said, "I was hoping you would be able to give me directions."

He raised a finger that pointed back from where she came. She got the meaning – the only directions he was interested in giving were directions to a place where she wouldn't be a distraction.

"I don't mean to take attention away from your duties, sir," she pressed, "I was simply hoping you'd be able to direct me to the Davenport estate?"

That rang a bell. His ears perked up and he turned his head around to face her. One of his eyes was bigger than the other, and he had a wooden tooth, but he was younger than he looked from behind; more grizzled than aged, as she'd previously assumed. His mouth curled into a grin and, in a harsh Cockney, he said "Ain't no one gone to the Davenport Homestead that ain't looking for trouble."

From his grin, Aveline gathered that this man was likely in the business of trouble, and now she regretted informing her of her intended destination. However, she had gotten this far, and there was no point in relenting now without gaining the information she required.

"I'm in the market for some," she quipped. "The Davenport Estate, please."

His grin grew only wider. He regarded her for a minute, looking her up and down. If his eyes lingered on her a second longer, she'd have brought her blade out of hiding. Just in time, he said, "Over that hill yonder, about two miles North. The manor's nestled in front of a big ol' lake. Can't miss it. Ugly ol' boat and all."

Aveline looked to where he pointed. It was, naturally, the tallest hill in sight, but she'd be able to tread it with ease. Its rocky surface was almost completely covered by bare trees, with branches that spidered through the air in a fashion most macabre. Aveline shook off any creeping feelings that the image portended a dangerous future ahead. Instead, she gave a polite nod to the fisherman, who hadn't taken his eyes off her since she mentioned the Davenport Estate, and walked off, hidden blade at the ready should anything arise. She proceeded off the docks and over to a wooden bridge that would take her over a frozen stream and into the wilderness. As she climbed the hill, she looked back. The man was no longer sitting at the docks – he had gone. An unsettling feeling rising in the pit of her stomach, she returned her eyes frontward and carried on.

The hill was gentler than it appeared, although the spindly branches above blocked what little light was coming through the heavy blanket of clouds. Land this close to the Homestead would surely be legally registered as Davenport hunting grounds, which Connor would likely have been using to train junior Assassins. So why all the overgrowth? The branches had thin, long twigs growing out of them, which were hazards for trainees who were just learning how to climb trees. Someone who was cognizant of the risks like Connor wouldn't neglect the overgrowth so.

After continuing on for about another half hour, she happened upon what appeared to be a path. It was covered in snow, so she wasn't able to tell by looking directly, but the fact that there were no trees directly above her tipped her off. Upon second glance, however, she noticed a trail of footprints. She knelt down to inspect them—medium-large in size, leading uphill, assumedly toward the homestead. _Connor? _It might have had to be—she hadn't seen any Assassin recruits around at all. She'd expected to be confronted by at least one of them by now. She elected to follow the trail uphill, hoping that the tracks were new enough that she might locate their creator as she walked.

Continuing along the path, she scanned the area, hoping she'd find at least one Assassin trainee. But all that lay before her were snow and trees. _Could it be, _she considered, _that there are no Assassins here? _If that were the case, that meant that Connor might not be here. If he's the Mentor of the Northeast Assassins, then wherever they were, he would be...wouldn't he?

She stopped when she saw that the footprints veered off the path. They turned a hard left, and continued towards a tree. About seven feet off the ground was a sturdy branch with no snow, which set it apart from the remainder of the white-capped branches around. _Whoever left these tracks took to the trees..._she reasoned. _It must have been Connor. But what did he see that felt he needed to-_

_CRACK. _A twig snapped behind her. Aveline whipped around, drawing her twin guns at lightning speed and pointing them straight ahead at her new targets. Ten yards away stood three men—_How did I not hear three men following me in the snow?_—brandishing axes. They looked ill-dressed for the weather, wearing only long coats over their clothes. At the front of the group, unsurprisingly, was the man who'd given her directions her at the docks. He wore the same devilish grin he'd had earlier, and it seemed like this time he was raring to act on whatever intentions he had.

"Good to see you again," he called out.

"You couldn't bear waiting more than an hour?" she responded. "I'm flattered. What do you want?"

"Muskets make it a bit obvious, wouldn't you think?" he joked. "But I think the real question here, my dear, is what do _you _want?" She hesitated, so that he might go on. "A woman like yourself, dressed like that, drifts into Rockport for a night and wants to go to the Davenport Homestead? Bollocks. The money in my purse says you're an Assassin, and the money in my purse is from someone who ain't a fan of yours."

_He's not a Templar, _she concluded, _but he's in their employ. The same can be said of his little gang. _It was clear that even though both Rodolpho and Cavendish were dead, the show must go on for the New Orleans Templars. Whoever was running things now was aware that she was heading north, and at the very least had a suspicion as to where she might be headed. She'd need to do a better job of covering her tracks. She was being far too reckless.

"So here's the deal," he continued, "We got orders to kill you before you get up this here hill. Three of us, one of you, shouldn't be hardship. Sorry, miss, but you won't be having a rendezvous with no Mister Kenway today."

"So, Mister Kenway _is_ here?" she responded, hearing movement in the branches above.

"Wha-?" He laughed incredulously, as if he was confused why she'd be asking that question, considering she was on a path leading straight to Kenway's house. "You're an Assassin, shouldn't you know?"

"Indulge me," she said. "My two guns against three of you. You're going to kill me anyway."

"Ha," the leader said. "Fine. We don't know if Mister Kenway lives here. People round town said he inherited the land few years back when some recluse died. I guess this place just turns out recluses like a sort of mill." He paused, as if amused by Aveline's lack of knowledge on this matter. "Ain't no one seen hide nor hair of Mister Kenway in almost eight years."

He waited for Aveline to react. She didn't. She just kept her guns trained on him, unwavering.

"Nothing to say? Well, all right," he shrugged. He nodded to his compatriots, and all three of them drew their muskets. "Say good night, Assassin." Slowly, and with care, they pointed their muskets at Aveline. Her fingers tightened around her triggers, ready to empty her cartridges into the space between this bastard's eyes, but she stayed her hand. She'd have to wait until...

"Gack!"The leader choked, as something metallic jutted through the back of his neck and out through the front, tearing through his throat. Blood splattered onto the snow before him. Before he could understand what happened, the blade in his neck jerked him backward and up, sending him sailing up into the trees on the rope to which the blade in his throat was connected. He was unable to scream, but his gag was deafening as his ascension came to a jerking stop. He dangled from a branch, like a pirate condemned to the hangman's noose. He thrashed and fidgeted, fighting so hard to stay alive...and then he stopped.

His two compatriots were flabbergasted, gawking at this new bloodied spectacle. They hadn't the faintest idea what to make of it, and seemed to have forgotten all about Aveline. Taking advantage of their broken concentration, she aimed a pistol at each of their heads and squeezed the triggers. Both of them fell face-first into the scarlet-speckled snow.

Blowing the smoke from her guns and sheathing them back into their holsters, Aveline smirked. She'd been waiting for this. She walked through the snow toward the man who stood at the other end of the rope dart, the end of which he'd buried deep into the ground to make a hanging display of the dead Templar mercenary. He wore only a hide jacket, a rustic tunic, and thick trousers and boots. His long, brown hair was tied back, with beaded braids on the side. He hadn't looked at Aveline yet. Instead he watched the blood drip into the snow from the hanging carcass. Aveline observed his strong posture, and she felt relief wash over her—he didn't look like he'd stopped his training for a day. He was in very good shape.

"Good aim with the dart," she complimented, barely holding back her giggle, "although you must admit, I've got you beat when it comes to a pistol." He didn't respond. "You're still good at killing Templars."

"They were intruders," Connor Kenway said immediately, nearly cutting her off mid-sentence. He sounded so cold. "Trespassing on my land. I couldn't abide that."

"If that were the case, you could have simply told them to go away," she said, a bit off-put by his mean-spirited tone. She expected him to respond in a way that would reassure her that he wasn't actually being so rude, that she'd only misheard, but he didn't. Instead, he walked past her, silently, back up the hill. She remained in place, watching him walk away from her, having barely looked at her. _Was it something I said? _She wondered. No, her confusion went even deeper. _Is this...is this Connor? _This wasn't the Connor she remembered. She remembered a force of nature, a pack of wolves in a single human, dressed from head to toe in the threads of revolution. This...was not him. It couldn't be.

He stopped, after a few meters of walking alone, and asked, "Are you coming?"

"Does that mean I'm not a trespasser? I don't want to end up like them," she retorted. She waited for him to reply. He simply stood there. Sighing, she started walking up the hill to join him. He continued walking once she reached him. She decided to try a different approach. "It's been a long time, Connor."

"You could have written me that you were coming."

"Difficult to write a letter when your stationery burns in a fire," she said, hoping for a reaction, a show of sympathy on his part. There was none. He still would not even look at her. The relief that she felt at his arrival had dissipated, replaced by confusion and disappointment.

They continued their uphill ascent in silence.

The pair arrived at the top of the hill, out from under the cover of the trees and into a clearing. Like earlier, a path was only discernable by the tracks of footprints going back and forth in the snow in opposite directions. There was a stone gate, outside of which sat an un-horsed carriage buried under a week's worth of snow. But what really drew Aveline's attention, more than the unused carriage, more than Connor's uncharacteristic lack of passion, was the massive pile of destruction where (she assumed) a manor must have once stood. She could see vestiges of wallframes, support beams and columns standing naked and exposed in the cold air, but much of the brick had been reduced to rubble. How could this be the Davenport Homstead, when at its center, there didn't even stand a home?

"What happened?" Aveline breathed. "The Templars?"

"No. The test of time did this," Connor said. Aveline just stared. "It was an old house. This was bound to happen eventually." Connor continued walking down the path, past the wreckage that used to be his home.

"Connor," Aveline called, staying behind. It took Connor a second to stop and listen, as if he didn't immediately remember that that name was his. She took a breath, and then she asked the question that she needed to ask.

"Connor...what happened to the Assassins?"


	4. Chapter 4: What Happened?

**Chapter 4: What Happened?**

_Two can play at that game._

Aveline was fuming. She could not believe the state that things were in. The Manor was a shambles. The Assassins were gone. Connor was living in a cabin, for god's sakes. And when Aveline would ask the simplest question possible, "Why?", she'd get silence. Well, if that was the way Connor wanted it, then that's the way he'd have it. If he wouldn't say a word, she wouldn't share why she traveled North without telling him, or provide any details she knew about the Templar plot that was to occur in his own backyard.

That being said, it was polite of him to allow her to stay nights in his cabin. Tight-lipped as he was, he didn't brand an eviction date on the verbal arrangement, but she knew that it would only be for a limited time; courtesy would demand it. Thus, she would have to make the best of her time on the Homestead as she could.

Aveline studied Connor from her perch on his couch. He sat on a stool in front of the fireplace, poking the burning logs with his sword. He had shed his coat and his boots and, although was visibly more comfortable, did not appear relaxed. His mouth seemed chiseled into a permanent frown, and his shoulders slumped. Defeated. Although she couldn't see his eyes from her angle, she knew that they looked...old. As if in the flames he could see a reflection of the years gone past and all the paths he'd taken...and he couldn't look away. _Is this what he does now? When I'm not around? When there's no one else for him to look at?_

She had so many questions she wanted to ask. So many mysteries about him, so many good things she remembered that she'd always wanted to talk to him about. She always admired him, so, so much, and although their past correspondence was limited, after they'd worked together in 1777, she'd found herself wishing they'd known each other all their lives. He was a whirlwind of talent and skill, unleashing terror on his enemies with a ferocity unmatched even by the wildest of animals. He was strong, rigid, and poised—and enigmatic. Like a moving statue, everything he did was powerful, and every word he elected to spare was full of mystery.

At the time, she'd found his relative silence endearing. Now, not so much.

She stood, being sure to make a fair amount of noise as she did to get his attention. Connor barely turned.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Do you have a washroom I can use?" she asked. "I need to wash these clothes."

"In the next room," he said. Aveline crossed over to it. The cabin itself was relatively large. It had three rooms—the sitting room with the fireplace, the washroom, and Connor's bedroom. Aveline would be sleeping on the couch. She could tell from the quality of the wood that the cabin was new, and was likely built directly after the Manor collapsed. Either he'd built it, or he'd hired someone to build it. _But either way, _she wondered, _why wouldn't he use those same resources to rebuild the Manor? Why leave it like that?_

The washroom was small, complete with a single washboard, a tub full of water, some soap, and a couple of basins. She felt the water in the tub—cold, but not terribly. The room was warm enough that the water could stay at a decent temperature. The tub would have to be used for both laundry and for baths, she figured. She lamented that there was no door to the room, only an opening in the wall. She wouldn't be able to bathe in private...if she did, she'd have to wait until he was out on errands, or if he was in the other room, and even then, she'd have to announce it to make sure he didn't intrude. That'd be...embarrassing. But for now, she resolved, she'd wash her tunic and figure out later what to do.

Aveline drew her tunic over her shoulders and placed it to the side. The cold of the room was much more noticeable through her shift, but not unbearable. She rolled up her sleeves and tied back her hair. She rubbed a bar of soap in the water until the tub was filled with frothy suds. She went over the tunic in the water and with the soap, making sure to get the places most concentrated with dirt and grime. It had been a long journey, and her dirty clothes were quite the indicator. She couldn't wait until she'd have a chance to bathe. She was accustomed to not bathing for more than a month at a time, but after all she'd been through, she felt she was entitled to an early appointment. She wondered if Connor...

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of knocks on the wall. She turned to see that Connor was standing near the door, being careful not to look inside. Aveline couldn't help but smile a little.

"It's fine, Connor," she said, "I'm perfectly decent." She then turned back to her laundry.

He trepidatiously crossed the threshold into the room. After a moment of respectful hesitation, he regarded her, a bit distracted by the sheerness of her shift, but more so intrigued by how vigorously she was working at the tunic. Her forearms were solid muscle, and he could see the subtle bulge of her shoulders. _Years of climbing and wielding machetes, _he figured. It was impressive. She had...a lot of strength.

"Well?" she said, reminding him that he'd interrupted her and proceeded to not say anything. Also, he'd forgotten he'd brought clothes. He held out to her a loose linen tunic and a pair of thin trousers.

"I brought you some spare clothes," he said. Aveline smiled. It was as if he'd read her mind.

"Thanks," she responded, "but I think I may be a bit small in stature for your clothes."

"They're mine from when I was young," he elaborated, his tone confirming that they'd fit. "You'll have to excuse the length, however...you are a tall woman."

Aveline laughed. His tone was so flat that it betrayed innocence. "I would have liked to meet a young Connor," she said. "He was probably a prodigy of the Assassins."

"If Achilles ever thought so, he wouldn't say," Connor replied, almost ruefully.

"Who is Achilles?"

"He was my Mentor. He lived here alone, until I came."

"And clearly so much has changed," she said, the sarcasm in her voice apparent. He didn't seem to perceive it, however. He went silent and averted his gaze. His mind had gone somewhere else. He turned, about to leave the room. An impulse in Aveline's body forced her to turn around and say something to keep him there.

"Connor," she said. Again, the delay in his response, as if he didn't recognize the name. "You didn't tell me. What happened to the Assassins?"

Connor sighed. He turned back around to face her, and looked her in the eye. Then he looked away again. He couldn't expect another Assassin to understand. And yet, she asked.

"They left," he said. "They've moved on. They're training with a new Mentor. A better one."

Aveline's brow furrowed. She was confused. That combination of sentences just didn't make any sense to her. "There is no better Mentor. You stopped the Templars in the North and put an end to the War. You're the one to learn from. There is no one else."

"There are many who would make suitable Mentors," he responded. "It simply requires the will to be one." And with that, he exited the room. Aveline threw her soapy tunic aside and pursued him. Connor sat down at the stool again and grabbed his sword and a knife. He scraped the knife against the sword to sharpen it, creating scraping noises so loud they drowned out the world around him. Aveline stood behind him, uncertain what to conclude about him. Why would he give up the position of Mentor? Back in New Orleans, she was unable to properly assume the role of Mentor, as she had no Assassins in her sway that were not agents of information. Once Gerald had left, she become so swamped in the work of her family's business that the task of recruiting an entire chapter of the Order would have been gargantuan at least. But she was able to rationalize her inaction through the knowledge that that Connor was taking over the position of Mentor. The recruitment mission he'd sent her on was indicative of that. If she had known that _this_ is what what resulted...

"What happened, Connor?" she asked between scrapes of his blades.

"I already told you," he responded. "They left."

"I'm not asking about them anymore," she continued. "What happened to you?"

He stopped sharpening his sword for a second, as if considering if he should answer. He didn't. He started sharpening again.

"They're training with Patience Gibbs," he changed the subject. "She's allied with an abolitionist faction that trafficks escaped slaves to the North. In secret, she recruits some of them to the Brotherhood. If it's trained Assasins you seek for whatever business you have, you'd be wise to start there."

"Or, I could start with what's right in front of me," Aveline said. Connor turned around, looked her dead in the eyes. His eyes were dark and moody, deep with years of regret. Aveline couldn't help but be humbled by it. In that moment, she couldn't feel sorry for him. She could only wonder what had happened that turned him into this hollow shell of a man.

"I'm not an Assassin," Connor said. "Not anymore."

"I refuse to accept that," Aveline said. Out of her pants pocket, she pulled out a piece of parchment – the letter she'd taken from Rodolpho's desk back in New Orleans. She unrolled it and presented it to Connor, who just stared at it.

"Read it," Aveline commanded. Connor glared at her for a second before taking it and scanning it, not paying much attention. Then, his expression became much more serious and he read the letter a second time, more closely.

"Hamilton?" he asked, referring to a vague name that appeared in Rodolpho's fine cursive. "As in, Alexander Hamilton?"

"New Orleans is not a part of this new America, so forgive my ignorance," she said, "but Alexander Hamilton is your treasurer, _non?_"

"It's not my—" Connor began, about to protest her implication that this new United States had anything to do with him, but he bit his tongue. "Yes, he's the treasurer. This letter suggests that this Mister Samuel Abstergo intends to meet with the treasurer in one week's time."

"His co-ownership of Rodolpho & Abstergo Enterprises confirms that Abstergo is a Templar as well, and thus any dealings he has in the North are meant to advance a Templar agenda," Aveline said, espousing her conclusions with a sagelike wisdom. "Read that section of the letter closely."

Connor returned his gaze to the letter, squinting to comprehend the words written in John Jackson Rodolpho's fine print. Connor always found English easier to be spoken than to be read, which explained why Achilles' vast library went largely untouched. Nonetheless, he pushed himself to read the passage aloud.

"_On the evening of February the 23__rd__, the year of our lord 1792, you must meet with Hamilton to discuss affairs. When the deed is done, I request you to stay your hand until matters resolve themselves."_ Connor read it again and again in his mind, not understanding what about the sentence struck Aveline as suspicious. Confused, he looked up at Aveline with a blank stare.

"You don't see it?" Aveline asked incredulously. "It's staring you right in the face!" She walked over to him and took the letter out of his hand, pointing directly to the words he'd just read. "It says, 'when the deed is done,'" she indicated. "In the sentence prior, all Rodolpho mentions is a conversation. A conversation or a meeting is not an action, it's an event. You can't 'commit the deed of conversation'. Which means, there's something else. There's an action that's to be taken contemporaneously, some 'deed'. So what is this deed he's expecting to be done during that meeting?"

"I don't know," Connor said.

"Neither do I," Aveline said, smiling. "And _that _is what I need to investigate."

Connor tried to wrap his mind around this. It'd been a while since he had needed to think on his feet. "Steady yourself one minute," Connor said. "How do you know you're not reading too much into this? Apart from the passage you've highlighted, the letter is vague. What makes you sure that there is evil intent underneath these words?"

Aveline's eyes widened. How could he possibly question the malice of a Templar plot? And how could he question her, given all she'd experienced? "Because the person who wrote those words burned down my home and made me watch." she said, each word dripping with venom. Connor took pause, realizing that this affected her on a level deeper than he previously imagined. He wondered, only for a second, if he would have known the details of her tragedy had he remained in touch with the Brotherhood. But he dispelled such thoughts immediately. Instead, he took another look at the letter.

"February 23rd is in just over a month," he advised. "What do you intend to do?"

"I intend to do nothing," Aveline said, returning into the washroom to tend to her clothing. "_We, _however, are going to investigate, and soon." She looked him in the eye, making clear that she was serious about that aspect. Connor snorted, wondering if she knew just how stubborn of a person he was. But, respectfully, he humored her.

"And what convinces you that I will be joining you on your investigations?" He asked.

"Simple," she said, scraping her tunic against the washboard with vigor. She knew that what she was about to say would either earn her a verbal lecture or immediate eviction, but she swallowed and said it, donning as much confidence as she could muster: "As soon as I gain the intelligence I require, I will be on my way. But until them, I am a guest in your home, a burden upon you. If you would like to go back to the constant excitement of having only yourself for a talking partner any time soon, it'd be in your best interests to assist me as quickly and efficiently as possible. Otherwise, you'll be stuck with me forever."

Connor's brow furrowed. "Your manners are deplorable if you think it appropriate to demand a man's help in exchange for imposing upon him," he said. "A deal suggests mutual benefit. What is in it for me?"

Aveline stopped scrubbing, and a deadly silence fell upon the two of them. "For the Connor I knew," she said after a few seconds, "the satisfaction of bringing down the Templars would be compensation enough for me to stay here forever." Connor's look softened, and he regarded her, wondering just how skilled she was at reading people. She'd only known him for a short time, and yet she felt so sure that she knew him so well. And he would not lie that, once upon a time, he was a sort of person who would abandon all reservations in order to pursue a lead against the Templars. But, that was a different time.

"And that forever," she said, "is about to start, because this water is warm and I would take a bath, were I given the privacy." Connor's stare was blank. To regain his concentration, Aveline snapped her fingers in front of his face. "_Excusez-moi? La vie privée, s'il vous plaît!_" She switched to French for emphasis, as she often did, even though she knew he didn't know the language. But he understood her intent just fine. With a grumble, he turned around and left the washroom, lumbering out slowly. For a second, however, he considered scolding her for how rude she'd been to so ungratefully claim ownership of his house because of what she considered a flaw in his character. How dare she be so presumptuous, and what makes her think she can be so righteous?

But when he did turn around, he caught a glimpse of her bare brown skin as she drew her shift over her body. He whipped his head back around, remembering his manners immediately, and returned to his seat in front of the fireplace. The flames were smaller than they'd been a few minutes earlier, but with a few pokes from his sword, the comfort of heat returned. Connor stared into the flames as he considered what Aveline had said, about how he'd only had himself to talk to for a very long time. When he glimpsed her muscular back, he realized, it had been quite a long time since he'd shared space with another human soul. And Aveline had soul to last a lifetime.

He buried his face in his hands and sighed loudly. This was going to be a long month.

**AN: I hate this chapter. It feels like filler. But I'm trying to take a step into a more romantic direction because that's what I want to explore with these characters. There'll be plenty of adventure as well, but the two will be tightly interwoven.**

**Updates will take a while because I've started school and I'm gonna be hella busy this semester. Sorry y'all.**


End file.
